


the way things are

by papersign



Series: smithereens [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Protective Big Brother Peter, i love these characters but i'm not sorry for causing them pain, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2020-11-08 08:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersign/pseuds/papersign
Summary: It was never supposed to be like this.They were never supposed to end up in foster care, were never supposed to end up in an unfathomable situation, one that seemed like something that would only happen on TV.Peter never thought that they'd be struggling to tread water, trying to keep from drowning.And yet, here they are, fighting for every breath.





	1. Into the Depths

**Author's Note:**

> in this world, the avengers exist! peter/harley/morgan are all blood siblings under the last name of parker. peter's the oldest, then harley, then morgan. 
> 
> this fic will be dealing with the abuse of minors and implied prostitution of those minors. it deals with the foster system. this is heavy shit and I've done/continue to do research to make sure I'm representing everything in here fairly/accurately, but I make no assertions that I'm an expert or that some things - like my representation of the foster system - is wholly accurate. please let me know if I need to add a tag or anything like that, and necessary TW for individual chapters will be in the notes up here. 
> 
> TW: implied current/past sexual/emotional/physical abuse of minors, mentions of death, aggressive language.

Peter is fourteen when he first puts a knife under his pillow.

He is fifteen when he replaces the butter knife he’s stolen from the kitchen with a small pocket knife, wickedly sharp at its tip.

Safety is not something he thinks is worth half-assing.

He rolls the knife from hand to hand, acting like Justice herself, shifting blame from one scale to the next. The weight, the solidness of it is comforting. The coolness of the sheath against his skin grounds him, helps him come out of whatever stupor his mind has quietly slipped into. He’s careful to keep it hidden, withdrawing it from its space beneath his ratty pillow every so often. The others, they don’t need to see it. They're reassured by Peter's protection, and, in turn, he hides by what means, to what lengths he'll go, to keep them safe. Morgan is far too young to comprehend the safety that comes with the blade as she knows only of its dangers, of the scolding is it associated with. Harley, too, is too young, too young to shoulder the responsibility that comes with such a weapon, small as it may be.

It is Peter’s burden, and his alone.

Ben would have jokingly called it his cross to bear, would have ruffled his hair and slung an arm around his shoulders. “This knife,” he would have said, his voice firm, and Peter would have met his eyes, a firm set to his jaw, ready to take the responsibility. “Is for emergencies. For self-defense. It’s not a toy, nor is it something you should be proud to use. It’s something I’m giving you to keep you safe, but safety may come at a price. You can’t treat this power lightly, Peter, and you never should.”

And Peter? He would have been solemn as he took it, something so small and yet so powerful, capable of causing so much harm. He would have promised, would have looked at the thing with a reverence that can only come from getting something that finally means he’s getting the responsibility that comes with being a protective older brother, taking care of his siblings, no matter the cost.

It doesn’t happen like that.

When Peter slips cash across a cloudy glass counter to a man who has eyes darker than the sky, he hears Ben’s voice urging him to be cautious with such responsibility. When Peter gets the cash slipped back to him and receives a pointed look, he steps around the counter, his hip bumping against an edge, and tries to keep Ben’s voice out.

His responsibility is to keep his siblings safe. This is how he does that.

It’s a bastard’s prize, this little pocketknife, but Peter will more than willingly be the bastard who takes the prize. It's the only thing he can win other than a few minutes of hot water in the earliest part of the mornings, before anyone wakes up. It’s a prize won by doing unforgivable things under the title of survival. He thinks Ben would understand, and May, that he only does such things in the hopes that their fragile safety net will stay suspended for a few moments longer, his actions carefully constructing reinforcements for a gossamer web.

Peter feels horribly, horribly lacking.

His life is a series of freak accidents — car crashes (_two fatalities, crippling change, pain melting into peace_) and muggings (_one fatality, two fatalities, a world crumbling into ash at his feet_) — which leave him in situations that mirror each other, ones where he’s wrapping his arms around his siblings, all too young to bear the weight of such monumental grief as they’re shipped from foster family to foster family. They attempt to separate him from Harley and Morgan (_once, only once, he does not let them try again_) but the results are catastrophic. Their case worker does what he can to keep them together, but what foster family wants three children, two quickly approaching the fire and brimstone of their teenage years?

* * *

Their fourth home is, Peter thinks, reparation for their last few years of tragedy. The Finches are comfortably wealthy, hovering on the upper edge of the middle class, appearing happily married as they welcome the trio inside.

It seems a little too big for two people, but their case worker explains they have been fostering for some time. It makes Peter feel uneasy, this wealth, this warmth.

All the same, some of the weight falls from Peter’s shoulders as they step inside. Their last few homes — houses, temporary dwellings — have been rough, responsibility mounting on his shoulders as he attempts to shelter Morgan from the rough-and-tumble boys at the Lawry’s; stepping between Harley and another boy before his brother’s injuries go beyond a black eye that turns into a galaxy in the coming days; stepping between Harley and their foster father before threat of violence can turn into a broken nose, a busted lip, a bruised cheek.

Grief is sharp in Peter’s chest for a long time, but it dulls, turns into an ache that throbs with a bump on his head, with the galaxies growing on his ribs, with the roaring in his ears every time a hand finds its mark. He has no room for grief — fear has settled in its place, growing large enough to push it back where it simmers every time his brother wakes up crying or when his sister slips into his cot, his bed, his pile of blankets, her body trembling as they attempt to fight the demons lurking in the dark.

At the Finches’, any fantasies of an idyllic life are shot down within hours.

Peter has no delusions of grandeur, no expectations for the people with which he interacts. He put so much faith in their case worker, in their first foster home, and he has been let down time after time. It’s simply easier for him to expect nothing. He cannot be disappointed if the bar is six feet under.

(_and yet, he still manages to find himself disappointed_)

They each find themselves in bedrooms, classically set in shades of blue and pink, sports and fairies. Morgan’s face is alight as she clamors into a bed, immediately at home, and it isn’t until Harley grabs Peter’s hand to pull him towards their room that he moves. Unease joins fear, tugging at the edge of his consciousness as he looks at the room he’ll share with Harley.

It’s cheery. Sunlight streams in from a window, washing the room in the midday glow, and the beds are against opposite walls. Harley grabs the one on the right without hesitation but Peter hovers by the doorway, letting his eyes slide over the room once, twice, three times, before he steps further inside. The bed is plush underneath him, its softness hinting at discomfort, and Peter shifts, attempting to get comfortable, before he’s up again.

“I’m going to check on Morgan.” Peter doesn’t know why he bothers saying anything at all as Harley is already nose-deep in a book he’s found on a nearby shelf, but he announces his leaving anyways, making his way back down the hall to the room where Morgan’s staying. She’s playing with some dolls, her head lifting at his footsteps, her smile warmer than the sunlight that streams in through the windows. She invites him to play and he does, though he feels out-of-place in the richness of her world that she’s created.

He’s newly fourteen and he knows that this place is unsafe, but when he attempts to caution his brother, he laughs. Harley feels safe, here, and he’s eleven years old, thinking he knows so much of the world. His grief has aged him, the last two years have aged them all, but Peter thinks about shaking him, saying _no, no, this place is not safe for us. We are guests, this is temporary. Do not get comfortable_.

He doesn’t.

When he finds out he’s right, he wishes that his instincts had lied to him.

* * *

Peter is fourteen when he doesn’t think twice about buying a knife with his body to hide beneath his pillow.

Temporary no longer seems like an applicable word for their situation. Every day, every month, every year that passes seems to entrench them deeper in a world that Peter knows they never should have learned about at such an age. He has done things, seen things, learned things that he knows he will always remember. He has done everything in his power — which is not much, a fact which grates on his senses, his already fragile nerves — to keep Harley from it, to keep Morgan sheltered from the reality of their situation, to hide her from the true meanings of the dinner parties the Finches throw.

He begs, grovels at Charles Finch’s feet, implores him to leave his siblings out of it.

_ Harley is only ten, please, and Morgan — she’s, she’s eight, they don’t know anything. She’ll keep her mouth shut, please, they both will. Please, they’ll be good. They’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want. _

_ Boy, don’t you know? You don’t have a choice. _

Peter finds he’s rather good at hiding things from his siblings.

Morgan is the darling of their foster family’s (_captors’, wardens’_) eyes. She can do no wrong and, as much as it pains him to see it in these circumstances, is flourishing. She is the favorite, young enough to be malleable, capable of adjusting to suit the ever-changing whims of the Finches. While they seem to be doing her no harm, Peter sees past their blatant favoritism; Morgan is the perfect bait, looking like a porcelain doll during the parties, unaware of the gazes that are leveled her way, of the whispers that pass between men and Gloria Finch, of their foster mother’s smile that never, ever reaches her eyes.

Peter thinks he’s imagining it the first time he sees it. Then he sees it again, and again, and again, and he’s having to excuse himself, collapsed in front of the toilet as he gets out the meager amount of food he’s consumed. Harley looks at him with more concern than he’s ever seen the first time, and Peter offers his brother what he hopes is a reassuring smile _(though he feels it quiver, as if his muscles cannot fathom why he’s smiling at a moment like this_).

Harley asks no questions, Morgan basks in more attention than she’s ever known, and Peter is joined by a strange man in a room that he cannot remember the features of.

Such is his routine.

Harley is sheltered from the nightly visits that Peter receives, but his younger brother is too smart and too stubborn to be sheltered from the blows. Not even Peter’s offerings can keep him safe, meager as they are (_meager? his body is his offering, his tribute to a god that is hell-bent on cowing him, on removing his soul one shattered piece at a time, how could that be meager—_) and Harley learns to keep witty comments to himself. Where their parents, their family, would have laughed, would have teased Harley for his brain, all the while encouraging him to continue sharing, to continue growing his vast library of knowledge, the Finches accuse him of talking back, of being a smartass, hands raising to deliver blows placed just perfectly enough to smart underneath faded t-shirts and size-too-large jeans. Shorts are a thing of the past for them both.

A hand lifts, they both flinch. Pavlov’d into submission.

Birthdays pass, a year gone. Has it only been a year? Peter thinks he’s been suspended in time for months, not even aware that it’s his birthday until Morgan tells him_ happy birthday!_ at breakfast. He pauses for a moment too long before saying_ thanks, Mo_.

His birthday gift is a soreness that takes a week to disappear.

* * *

Peter recalls how as a child he adored school. He thrives under the guidance of teachers who encourage him to develop his mind and always has, but now, as he ducks his head as he walks through the hallways, hiding limps with a stilted stride and bruises with long sleeves under the guise of cold classrooms, school is nothing but a brief respite. His grades stay up — a few months after moving in with the Finches, Peter receives his first C in his life and is reminded of the importance of getting good grades as he nurses a black eye — but he finds no enjoyment in the work. It serves as a means to an end and nothing more.

His teachers notice his withdrawing, but Peter dodges their soft questions and thinly veiled concern with a duck of his head, mumbling excuses as he takes his leave. They stop prying.

_ He’s been through so much— _

_ Oh, that whole family, it’s so sad— _

_ Such a smart kid, he was always so talkative, it’s heartbreaking to see— _

It makes him ill. If only they knew, if only he could tell them, if only he could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Peter feels stifled by his inability to predict the future.

His place is wherever he is moved. Emotionless, his body is manipulated like a chess piece on a board, privy to the whims of whomever chooses to position him. A life dictated by others, his sentience a mere add-on to make the game more interesting for the players. There is heavy irony in this; Peter is freed from choices, here, relying on the routine that has been created for him, but when his hands are shackled, can he call it freedom?

Autonomy, agency. Unfamiliar words. Peter cannot wrap his head around what such things would give him if he got them back. Did he ever have them?

He wonders, too, if he’s been broken in. Is he truly worthless in this economy the Finches have created? Does he carry any value at all?

Morgan still clings to him on occasion, still climbs into his bed, and Harley still comes to him, hiding by his side after a heavy hand, a harsh word.

_ I am an impostor_.

Peter aches to take away the sadness that haunts Harley’s eyes, that makes Morgan’s shoulders droop; he aches to pull the constellation of bruises from Harley’s back and transfer them to his own skin, where the burden of pain has become as familiar as breathing; he aches to take them far away from here to a place where their family still lives and the only hurt they have to feel is that of a scraped knee.

Peter cannot fathom how they see him as protector, as savior, as their older brother that will lead them out of here alive. Every day leaves him floundering in open water, head stretching to keep the water from going down his throat. Even as he throws his body to the wolves, as he defends his siblings against the torment of the Finches, as he takes the blows, takes the repercussions, Peter cannot grasp how they continue to trust in his ability. Blood is thicker than water, but his body is drained, exhausted.

Do they even trust him still?

Days pass and Peter wonders if he’ll ever wake up from the fog he’s found himself in.

The weeks approaching Harley’s thirteenth birthday are filled with a restless anticipation that radiates from the Finches, leaving Peter uneasy, the definition of the look in their eyes dawning slow and painful in his chest. Peter finds himself wishing as he lays in a bed that is too soft below his body that he could back to his old normal, where he had nights alone, where his thighs weren’t littered in bruises, where his body didn’t ache at every hour. He almost finds it in himself to laugh, but the noise won’t rise.

How pathetic is he to wish for the simplicity of their past when no amount of wishing will bring it back? How worthless is he as a brother, knowing the inevitable and finding himself unable to move, to sleep, to speak, as the days count down?

But, for the first time in a long time, Peter feels sharper, lighter on his feet, more alert. Anxiety rockets with each hour and it leaves him with a clear-headed focus that he thanks every lucky star for. It gives him a confidence that wavers, that makes him nauseous to think about, but the confidence stays all the same.

* * *

Peter finds his words one night.

Morgan’s asleep, Harley’s asleep.

Charles, as he is wont to do, finds Peter in his bed, wakes him up (_he hasn’t fallen asleep, he knows better now_), takes him from the room he shares with his brother. Brings him to the room. Begins his ritual like clockwork while Peter stares at the same spot of wall where it was repainted, the shade of gray not quite the same as the original.

He remembers how, in the beginning, he fought it. He cried, he yelled, he begged.

_ Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me! _

_ Please, I’ll be good, I’ll do better. Please don’t do this. _

_ Please._

Blows meet blows. Bruises get scratches in return, until they don’t.

He remembers shame, hot and heavy in his stomach. He remembers tears silently making their way down his cheeks and thinking, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_, to his parents, to his aunt, to his uncle.

After the first few times, Peter only remembers the aftermath, the careful clean-up he does with the bathroom light off, the slowness to his walk, his knuckles white as he grips the railing beside the stairs.

Peter stares at the spot. “Please don’t use Harley.” His voice is hoarse, tongue feeling foreign in his mouth. Did he even speak? Reality seems arbitrary at best, a hallucination at worst. A thought passes — maybe it’s a fever dream.

No.

Charles stops. His grip tightens. Peter wonders if he’ll ever breathe normally again. His thoughts seem to be whispers in his ears, no longer contained inside his head. The world swims.

“You will not fuck this up for me. We have plans,” The devil is in his voice, and Peter wills himself to keep staring at the wall as eyes bore into his skull, into his cheekbone, into the scrape healing below his eye. “And you do not get to choose here, boy.”

Peter hears the smile before he sees it, moments before his head is roughly turned, eyes sweeping up and over until they meet the dark eyes of the man in front of him. The world narrows.

“You’re not as fresh as you used to be. Harley will satisfy those you seem incapable of taking care of.” There’s a piece of something green in Charles’s teeth, and Peter can feel a gnawing in his stomach. “You’re just useless, aren’t you, boy?” Pain. “Fucking incapable of doing anything well. You can’t even protect your siblings.” A laugh, brimming with mirth. “You’re weak, fucking pathetic. All you do is waste space.”

Tears have grown unfamiliar to Peter in the past year and they scald his cheeks as they roll down, his eyes drifting slowly back to his spot on the wall, the world passing by as if he’s floating in molasses. If Charles says any more, he has lost the ability to hear it.

He wakes up, seconds, minutes, hours later, and attempts to muster up the strength to carry his body elsewhere.

* * *

Sometimes he takes the knife he’s taken to hiding in his pillowcase and holds it in his palm. _Some protector I am,_ Peter thinks. _Why have it if you won’t use it, you coward? Can’t even grab it and protect yourself. You think you can protect Harley, Morgan? You’re spineless. _

He doesn’t get rid of it. It serves as a reminder of his failures, of his incapability to protect those he loves more than anything in the world. It keeps Peter in his place.

He needs to be kept there.

* * *

Then, when Harley turns thirteen, all Peter can think about is the knife under his pillow.


	2. Shelter in Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder to be mindful of the tags!

The day dawns as any other. Partly gray, hinting at possibilities of snow as the day progresses. Peter’s awake before Harley’s alarm, as usual, and lays in bed, staring at a spot on the ceiling that he thinks may be water damage. How funny. The thought comes unbidden. Damaged ceiling above a damaged kid. Where else would it be?

He floats in a moment of peaceful, thoughtless quiet.

The alarm goes off and Peter shoots up in bed without a moment’s hesitation, his brother pressing snooze for the first of three times. Peter is often the first to wake and rarely falls back asleep, though today seems to be a rare case – he doesn’t remember closing his eyes again. What is more unsettling than his extra minutes of sleep is the realization that hits him as he wakes for the second time, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Today is Harley’s birthday — no, today is Harley’s initiation — and Peter cannot stop it any more than he can stop the world from spinning.

He knows what is coming for his baby brother. A wave of nausea overtakes him, and he jolts from his bed, doing his best to keep from rousing Harley as he staggers to the bathroom. Bile is all that comes up as Peter kneels on the tile floor, white-knuckled as he grips the porcelain rim. He wonders, briefly, if he’d eaten dinner the night before, but all that he can focus on is the blurring of his gaze as he vomits. Peter spits after a moment, making sure his body’s revolt is through, before flushing the toilet and pushing himself to his feet. He stabilizes and swallows, ignoring the disgusting taste in his mouth and focusing instead on the ache he feels from standing up.

His shirt comes off in moments.

A galaxy of bruises, purple and gray and green and yellow, greet Peter’s gaze as he looks in the mirror. This is his morning — he takes stock of the marks he has, notes which are healing, which need extra attention. No longer do tears spring to his eyes at the sight of himself, no longer does he carry bruises on his knuckles (self-inflicted) from his rage (at himself, at the world, at his parents, his family, the bastards that call themselves parents), instead feeling a detachment that comes with an understanding of the way things are – he cannot change these marks that linger, he cannot change his situation, so he simply accepts that this version of himself, battered and bruised, is who he is, who he has become.

He’s adaptable, to say the least.

Charles is already downstairs, phone pressed to his ear, when Peter makes his way into the kitchen. His voice is low but indicative of his irritation with the unfortunate recipient on the other side, making Peter wince, giving his foster father as wide of a berth as he can. A slice of bread in the toaster, a glass of orange juice, half-filled, a cautious trek to the kitchen table where Peter waits patiently for his toast. His hands are folded until they unfold to grip the glass and move it to a coaster so avoid the damage of condensation and a well-placed hit.

He cannot help but wonder if Charles will lay out his plans for Harley before he leaves, just so he can watch for any punishable emotion to traverse across Peter’s face. A steely resilience settles in his chest; he won’t give Charles the satisfaction of knowing how the thought of Harley’s initiation makes waves in his stomach.

The toaster pops. Peter flinches. Charles looks up from his travel mug and his gaze finds Peter as a smile spreads across his face.

“Where’s the birthday boy?” The conversation apparently ended, Charles sets down his phone, attempting to be innocuous as he leans against the kitchen counter. Peter knows better than to think that his interest is a product of good intentions. He shrugs in response, plucking his toast out of the toaster and slathers it with peanut butter before retreating to his spot at the table.

“Asleep, probably.” Peter forces down bits of toast and ignores the warnings from his stomach, gaze flickering from his food to Charles, whose attention hasn’t wavered in the least. “He’ll be up soon.”

_Please, no_.

“Tell him Gloria’s giving him the chance to play hooky from school.” Peter swallows hard, fingers gripping his glass, feeling like a rabbit trapped in a snare that’s staring down a wolf with nothing to lose. “For his birthday gift.”

All Peter can manage to do is nod, which isn’t good enough (_he knows this_), and he manages to form the words _yes, sir_, before Charles leaves, his hand running over Peter’s arm in passing. A promise and a warning neatly wrapped in one.

Peter’s still sitting lost in his own thoughts, toast half-eaten, when Harley and Morgan come downstairs. Morgan’s chipper as she slips into the seat beside Peter, but he doesn’t hear her, world not coming into focus until she jostles his arm. Both his siblings are regarding him with concern — Harley’s more poignant than Morgan’s — but Peter offers up a facsimile of a smile to assuage their worries. Morgan seems temporarily put at ease, but Harley watches him with a hawkish expression, leaving Peter feeling unusually exposed.

“Happy birthday, Har.” Peter straightens in his seat, giving Morgan’s hair an affectionate ruffle despite her protests. “How’s it feel to be a teenager?”

In return he gets a wolfish smile. Harley’s grown so much, Peter realizes in this moment, and the thought makes him feel remarkably sad – if only their parents, if only May and Ben, were here to see him now.

“Pretty damn good.” Harley remarks, pulling out cereal bowls for himself and Morgan, as he does every morning. How domestic their routine seems. If Peter shut his eyes, he thinks, he might be able to trick himself into thinking they’re at home, that the bruises on his chest are from play-fighting gone too far.

He doesn’t try.

“Hey, Peter, Harley said a bad word!” Morgan jumps on Harley’s swearing without a moment’s pause and hops up to get her cereal, glaring up at her brother before looking back at Peter for vindication.

“C’mon, Harley.” Peter levels his gaze at his brother, who sticks out his tongue before shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, jumping up to perch on the kitchen counter. “At least wait until Morgan can’t hear you.”

Morgan huffs her indignation as she takes a seat at the table again, sticking out her tongue at Harley and then doing the same at Peter. Peter can’t help but laugh at their antics, feeling marginally lighter at the innocence of this exchange, and he’s able to finish his toast without his stomach roiling.

_Fuck_, how long has it been since he’s laughed?

“Sorry, Mo.” Harley apologizes around a mouthful of food, meeting Peter’s gaze with a grin and a shrug. “It feels pretty _dang _good.”

“It’ll feel even better when I tell you that you get to play hooky today.” The words are like lead on Peter’s tongue, but he forces them out, eyes trained on Harley’s expression. He hates to sour this conversation, this moment of peace and shared happiness, as rare as they are.

He’s saddened but not surprised to see Harley’s face fall slightly, some of the light leaving his eyes, hardness taking its place. Despite the turbulence of their last few years, Harley has made good friends in his new school, and while the idea of staying home is a good one in theory, they both know there’s more to the instruction than a simple act of kindness.

Peter is torn between telling him and sheltering him, hoping that what’s coming won’t be as brutal as it has been for him. His brother doesn’t deserve what’s coming to him, and Peter is helpless, hands tied behind his back. Even if he tells Harley what to expect, nothing can prepare his little brother for the painful actualities of what’s coming.

“Lucky.” Morgan groans, hopping up to get herself some chocolate milk, lifting onto her toes to get the jug from the fridge. “I wanna skip school.”

“Well, munchkin, when it’s your birthday, maybe you’ll get to. But education is important, and—”

“—without it, you’ll be left behind, I remember.” Morgan finishes the phrase for Peter, plopping herself down in her seat at the table. “Just ‘cause I’m not as old as you doesn’t mean I don’t remember.”

A saying from their parents, the closest thing they’ll ever have to a family motto. Peter doesn’t think he knows anyone who put such an importance on education as their parents did, something that May and Ben took it upon themselves to further ingrain in the three of them. It’s one of a few things that remain clear as day about them, even as his father’s voice and his mother’s touch slip from his memory. Chagrined, Peter clears his dishes from the table, returning to give his sister a quick hug and a tap on the shoulder.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth. We’ve got to go in ten to make the bus.” Peter reminds Morgan before approaching Harley, his brows finally creasing as he steps from his sister’s view.

"I’d stay home if I could.” Peter murmurs, arms folding across his chest as Harley’s eyes drop to the tiled floor. “It’s Gloria who said you need to stay home. I— I need you to be careful today, okay? Watch yourself. Watch what you say.”

The look that Harley gives him is one of thinly veiled fear, and though he’s nothing if not strong, the worry that radiates off him is palpable. Peter’s heart aches at the sight, fingers twitching on his arms; he knows questions are swirling around in Harley’s head, but with Morgan in the vicinity, they know they can’t talk freely. Hell, they can’t talk freely anywhere, but the risk of removing the protection that encircles Morgan is too high. She’s been shielded from enough and there’s an unspoken agreement between the brothers to keep it that way for as long as possible.

There’s a moment where they’re in suspension, weighing the logistics of trying to talk about this now, but then Harley’s speaking in hushed tones and Peter realizes this is a conversation he cannot avoid, even though he wishes for nothing more.

“What happened last night?” There’s something accusatory, or maybe angry, in Harley’s voice as he fixes Peter with a stare that goes straight through him. “You came in late. Were you sleepwalking, or...?” _Let it stay unnamed_, Peter begs silently, relief rushing through him when Harley neglects to finish his sentence. They both know what happens behind closed doors, what happens when Peter vanishes for hours, but even that has semblance of predictable order. Last night was a brutal exception, and they both know it.

“I need you to be careful.” Peter reiterates, dodging the question while providing the answer Harley seeks, resignation clear on his brother’s face. “They... Harley, they want...”

Peter’s inability to finish his sentence brings acknowledgment to Harley’s face and he sees the moment that his brother begins to fully comprehend the situation that awaits him the moment Peter and Morgan leave. It is _agonizing _for Peter to watch as anger and fear battle for control, Harley’s posture changing every few seconds until it mirrors Peter’s, though his arms are tight across his chest, defensive.

“Peter.” Harley’s voice is tight. “We can’t stay here. I— I won’t let them do this.” _I won’t let them do this to me._ Peter knows that’s what his brother is thinking, though he’ll never say it to Peter’s face. Peter’s strong, but Harley’s stronger, stronger in his open defiance of their foster parents. Harley may try and fight, but Peter knows the outcome here is inevitable. Whether Harley wants to partake in this game of chess or not is irrelevant – the Finches don’t care, and neither do their clients. What they want will be taken without care.

There is too little time to have this argument again, the same one that resurfaces after every anomalous night, after every night of tending to a bruise that’s bigger, darker, bloodier than the normal. The average. There is too little time, but Peter knows they cannot avoid it.

* * *

The first night that Peter creeps into their room, a bruise blooming over his eye, lip busted, arm cradled against his chest, Harley rushes to his side and helps him sit on his bed. His brother is irate, but Peter is too exhausted, drained, to be angry. His wounds are a consequence he should have expected and neglects to account for whilst he’s in the middle of defending his brother (_or is Peter defending himself? it’s blurry, he can’t—_). It isn’t the first time this has happened, nor is it the first time this week.

Charles and Gloria are in moods after a less-than-stellar dinner party, both going after Peter once his siblings are out of range. His failure to please, though he’s given away parts of his soul with every john and jane he sees, is unacceptable. This is a lesson that takes three weeks to sink into their satisfaction.

But after that first night, and for many after, Peter argues with Harley in hushed tones while he attempts to patch Peter up in a way that will keep nosy school administration off their tails. Harley wants to leave, wants to pack up their things right then and there, wants to grab Morgan from bed and run. _Run where? Anywhere. _Peter cannot fathom leaving. In his mind, the Finches will find them — they will find him, and they will kill him. He is torn between the safety of abuse and the urge to keep his siblings out of harm’s way. He is incapable.

_A pathetic waste of space_.

They continue to argue, Harley pressing with more and more urgency that they need to leave while Peter says he’s capable of muscling through until he’s eighteen. He knows that if they leave, he will be even more helpless. How the _hell _is he supposed to keep them warm, clothed, fed? Peter cannot keep them safe here (_fucking pathetic_) but he knows with grave certainty that if they leave, they will not be taken care of like they are here.

_Here_, Peter argues through gritted teeth, _we get food. We get clothes, hot water. Beds. Out there, Harley? We’re on our fucking own. Nobody will help us. Do you understand that?_

Peter pretends to miss the scorn that crosses Harley’s face that night, pretends to not see the anger that overwhelms his features until the next time they’re both crouched in the bathroom, tending to a bruise shaped like a hand print on Peter’s hip. The conversation repeats until they’re both tired of talking.

* * *

The argument has been long-standing, tunneling its way into everyday conversations as heavy subtext that passes between Peter and his brother. _It makes sense_, Peter thinks wearily, _that it would resurface now_.

Perhaps the illusion of safety is too overwhelming to escape from, but Peter knows, deep down, that it’s just an excuse he’s telling himself to shift the blame of the coming situation he’s landed his brother in. He’s done all he can, Peter has _tried _to keep Harley safe, but there’s only so much he can do against their tormentors.

If he dies protecting his siblings, it will be a battle well fought, but Peter needs to win the war. He cannot protect his siblings from the grave any more than their parents can.

“Maybe he lied.” Peter finally replies, hands slipping into his pockets, struggling to meet his brother’s gaze. “There’s, well, they like you. More than me.” He clears his throat as Harley scoffs, shaking his head. “Maybe he lied, Har, and they’re just going to let you have a good birthday.”

Peter wishes he could mute himself as he feels himself crumbling under his lame excuses. Harley’s mouth is open, disbelief triumphing over fear, and Peter waits for this to be an argument – a proper one, with yelling, with fury (_it’d be deserved, absolutely deserved, Harley should scream at him, should accuse him of his failures to protect, his failure to be anything other than a plaything_) – but it never comes. Harley’s gaze is elsewhere, and Peter’s head turns to see what has caught his gaze. Morgan is in the doorway to the kitchen, her purple backpack almost dwarfing her small stature.

“Peter,” she says, hands on her hips, “We’re gonna miss the bus!”

In this moment, she looks like their mother in miniature. Peter has to dig his nails into his palms to keep tears from welling in his eyes.

Shaking his head slightly, Peter shares a look with Harley, who meets his eyes with a frown but neglects to speak as Peter rushes to grab his things and hustles his sister out the door. He and Morgan get to the city bus with moments to spare, retreating to the first open seat they see as the bus lurches forward. Peter sinks into it, pressing his forehead into the glass while Morgan settles beside him, pulling out a book from her bag that she burrows intently into. He spends the forty-minute ride in deep thought, arms wrapped around his aching body, wondering if he left his brother to the wolves.

Peter feels like a soul trapped in limbo as he goes through the motions of his day. He barely passes a quiz that he should’ve aced, mind preoccupied by the minute with thoughts of Harley — where he is, what he’s doing, what they have him doing — while every other minute is filled with an unspeakable amount of self-loathing and disbelief at himself for not doing _something_ to protect his brother.

* * *

_His mind recalls the purchase of the knife without his bidding. The knowing look of the man behind the counter. The sharp metal that hits his hip as he steps around, leaving a purple bruise. The stale smell of the air mingling with the smell of a fast-food lunch. The greasiness of his hair. The pain in his hips, in his back. The mere minutes he’s bent over, finding himself surprised at how quickly the encounter is over with. _

_The satisfaction of having the knife in his pocket._

_The disgust Peter feels towards selling his body is short lived – he’s more prideful in this moment. Prideful that he’s the one that used his body, not the other way around; the choice to accept an alternative payment is his and his alone, and now he has something to show for it that isn’t a scratch or a bruise. He has a weapon, a sharp one, and he feels so ready to physically attack the next man that touches him._

_He finds himself daydreaming about taking back some ounce of the agency that had been robbed from him as he lets his finger move over the flat side of the blade that night. Peter has a backup plan, a way out, a way to make the Finches respect him and his siblings. _

_And then, he doesn’t. The next time he’s brought into the room that smells like sweat and fear, he just lays there, staring at the ceiling, mind blank. _

_That’s when the disgust comes through in full force._

* * *

During lunch, Peter hides in a back corner of the library, head on a desk as he tries to regulate his breathing, his heartbeat. By the time he boards the 3:30 bus with his sister, his hands have been shaking for hours, his heart finding permanent lodging in his throat.

Morgan chatters beside him, having decided that for the ride home her brother is more interesting than her book, but Peter cannot focus on what she’s saying. He’s preoccupied with thoughts of the situation he left, fingers drumming on the seat beside his thigh, body shaking with nervous energy. Peter knows that leaving is an unforgivable offense, even though he and Harley both know that had he stayed, the consequences would have been severe. Logical thought is not something Peter feels privy to in this moment, even as he’s making all the appropriate noises to keep Morgan talking. All he knows is that he left his brother in an unsafe environment and the aftermath, the consequences, are his to shoulder.

And if Harley hates him now, Peter thinks he deserves that.

The bus stops and they get off, though Peter doesn’t remember stepping off it, nor does he fully process Morgan grabbing his hand and parading him inside the house with a cheerful greeting. It’s not reciprocated, and Peter tunes back in as Morgan hands him a note and requests that he read it, unable to read Gloria’s scrawl.

He feels numb.

“Went out for a bit with Harley for his birthday. There’s food in the fridge if you get hungry. Be back later.”

Peter wonders if the ground is crumbling below his feet or if he’s imagining it. All the shaking in his body has stopped, replaced by an icy chill that crawls down his back and stays clinging to his spine.

The full weight of what he’s done has started to descend.

Morgan has a snack. When did she get that? Did Peter give it to her? He doesn’t remember.

When did he get to his room? His biology homework is laid out in front of him, half done. Peter rubs at his eyes, checks the time. Almost five. What time did they get home?

Morgan knocks on the door at some point, announces she’s hungry. Peter manages to remove himself from his chair, reheating leftovers for her to enjoy and for him to pick at. She asks him what’s wrong, and Peter mumbles something about not feeling well and quickly reassures her that he just needs to go to bed early. She hesitates but seems pacified by his explanation and doesn’t pry further, which Peter’s thankful for.

They retreat to their respective rooms.

* * *

Peter doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the same question on his homework when he’s brought to awareness by the door creaking open. His head lifts immediately, eyes landing on Harley, whose expression he cannot read. Stomach twisting, Peter can only grip the side of his desk as his eyes roam over Harley’s body, over his face. His clothes seem rumpled, but he doesn’t seem any more disheveled than normal, and there’s no sign of any injuries at first glance. His brother steps further into the room and Peter looks at him as the door shuts, expecting the blankness that comes with violation, but instead, he sees a glimmer to his eye, a firm set to his jaw.

_What the fuck_?

Peter gives Harley a once-over to reassure himself that his brother seems no worse for wear and finds, again, no immediate causes for concern. Instead of soothing his frayed nerves, though, the knowledge only fries them further. He feels nauseated as Harley approaches. Harley’s hand grips his left shoulder (_an injury – he needs to check it, make sure nothing’s broken, oh, fuck—_) as he sits down on the edge of Peter’s bed. Peter’s searching Harley’s expression again, trying to figure out what’s coloring his eyes, but he’s too dizzy with _relief fear guilt_ to even begin to comprehend what’s there.

Peter can practically feel the adrenaline radiating from Harley, but cannot find it in himself to ask the questions he desperately wants answers to – _has he not failed after all? Did Charles listen?_

“We have a way out.” Harley states, resolve giving a hard edge to his words. Peter is, for a moment, irrationally angry – this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants to hear what happened, wants to hear if his baby brother is okay, wants to check his shoulder and fret in silence. Harley’s words aren’t the punishment he needs. Peter needs to know the extent of what his failures have done, but it doesn’t seem like Harley’s interested in relaying anything more.

It takes him several moments to gather himself, to shake off the fleeting anger and take a breath (_how long has he been holding it?_), but Peter adjusts his position in his chair, finally, his brows creasing as he musters up the will to speak.

"What do you mean 'we have a way out'?” He’s hesitant to believe that in the hours Harley has been gone that somehow a savior has shown up on their proverbial doorstep. If they were going to get a savior, they would have come long ago.

An escape plan is irresponsible to believe in and Peter knows this, even if Harley doesn’t.

“I mean,” Harley’s clearly frustrated by Peter’s apparent lack of excitement, though Peter cannot fathom existing in any other state than the one he’s in. Excitement in any form seems blasphemous at best. “We don’t have a way _out_, out, but we have a connection, a— a chance.” He’s buzzing, fingers drumming on the wood of the desk. “I met someone.”

Immediately, Peter is on edge.

“Who?” Harley _met _someone? These years have jaded Peter, making him unresponsive, wary, towards strangers, but his brother seems to lack that same caution. Briefly, he’s jealous – Harley always seems to be able to connect with strangers in a way Peter cannot (_not anymore, anyways_); briefly, he wonders if this stranger has ties with the Finches in more ways than one, if this person is meant to be a test, to see if Harley, if Peter, is planning anything reprehensible.

Panic and apprehension rush as the jealousy fades. “Harley, you—”

Cracking his knuckles as if on impulse and effectively cutting off Peter’s sentence, Harley lets out a breath. “Need to be careful. I know. But, Peter… this afternoon they took me out for my birthday. They said they had a surprise for me, a present, since I’d been so good lately.”

(_so compliant, not fighting, arguing less, keeping his tongue in check. good boy._)

“I’m not so stupid as to believe that shit, but I wasn’t about to ask questions.” His face scrunches, the picture of disgust, and smooths in the next heartbeat. Not asking questions was a lesson they learned quickly. “They said they had someone they wanted me to meet, so they dropped me off at some hotel downtown.

“So, they tell me almost nothing – of course – just that it’s time I earn my keep and that they’ve got a friend for me to meet, and what better day to do it on than today? They tell me not to fuck this up for them, to be a good boy, and then they drive off.” Harley rolls his eyes, lip curling, while Peter sits, stunned, at his brother’s nonchalance – no, he isn’t being nonchalant. He’s disgusted, but seemingly… unphased by all of it. Peter wonders how he can manage to be so detached but remembers his own detachment with every illicit encounter, his mind floating as he stares at the wall, the ceiling.

Perhaps detachment is a family trait.

Peter recalls the scene of them in the kitchen this morning – specifically, Peter’s attempt to warn his brother of what may be coming. The mix of emotions he remembers seeing then is at odds with the expression he sees on Harley’s face now, and Peter’s unsure how to mentally reconcile this fact. There’s no way that their brief conversation earlier has been enough for his brother to be prepared for what came for him, but… maybe it was.

He remains unconvinced.

Harley’s still talking, but Peter’s not listening. He finds himself unable to make his mind process what his brother’s saying, but despite his distance, the look he’s been expecting comes onto his brother’s face – discomfort, unease – and his heart twists, his emotions raging. He keeps his mouth shut, though, and while Harley talks, Peter does his best to listen.

“—introduces himself as Robert, tells me he’s been waiting for me, and that there’s something waiting for me in the hotel room he’s gotten. A present for me, since it’s my birthday.” Harley sobers, clearly unaware of Peter’s lapse in hearing, and stares at his lap. Peter wracks his brain, wondering if this is someone he’s dealt with, wondering if it was someone who got tired of him, and fails to feel his nails digging into his palm, leaving reddening half-crescents in his skin.

The fact that this is someone new, someone specifically brought in for Harley, makes Peter nauseated.

“I didn’t really know what to do – Gloria and Charles didn’t exactly give me much to go on – and I kind of pulled away when he tried to put his hand on my shoulder. He wasn’t a fan of that. So, he grabs my arm and tries to pull me inside without causing a scene, but...” His gaze swoops to the ceiling and Peter realizes with an aching heart that there’s tears forming at the edges of his brother’s eyes. Peter’s guilt is rendering him immobile, incapable of moving an inch to comfort Harley, though he wishes he could do something as simple as that.

“I panicked, Peter. I started arguing, trying to pull away while he’s trying to pull me inside, shouting to see if _someone _would help,” Peter grimaces, stomach rolling (_they never do_), “and then, out of nowhere, this guy shows up and shoves him off me.”

Harley shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and turns to look at Peter, his eyes still shining. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse with emotion. “Peter, I don’t know what I would’ve done if this guy hadn’t shown up. He pushed Robert off, told him to get lost, and threatened to cause him more pain than he’d ever known before Robert scuttled away.”

Disbelief and gratefulness rise in Peter in equal measure.

(_he thinks of his knife all the same, though, and his fingers twitch. he could’ve been there to protect his brother if he hadn’t gone to school, he should’ve been there, what a _fucking_ coward—_)

“We moved away from the hotel entrance, to get away from the asshat of a doorman who pretended not to see what happened. He introduced himself as Clint and shook my hand before asking if I’m okay.” Harley breathes a laugh, though with little humor. Peter fails to crack a smile, mind spinning.

_This man could’ve taken advantage of my brother. They both could have_.

“I told him that I was now, thanks to him, and introduced myself. We talked for a little while before he offered to help me get home, but I said no, I’d be okay.” Harley’s hand lifts mindlessly to his shoulder again, rubbing there with his middle and index fingers, and Peter’s gaze follows. “He asked if I was hungry. I said yes, so we went to this coffee shop nearby and he got me a sandwich. We talked a little longer, and he offered to look at my shoulder, since I seemed to be favoring it.” Harley shakes his head at the memory. “I said no, though. It’s sore,” he adds, as if he can sense Peter’s apprehension about the truthfulness of the statement, “but I’m fine. Really. I finished my food and a few minutes he said he had to go, so I thanked him for his help again and he left.”

Berating his brother for trusting a stranger is Peter’s first thought, but he bites at his tongue and keeps quiet.

“Gloria and Charles weren’t happy with me when they showed up.” Harley’s voice softens and their gazes sweep towards the door hastily. “They knew something was wrong and got it out of me, what happened, but I didn’t tell them about Clint.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t do that.”

“They really weren’t happy with me.” Watching with growing horror as Harley lifts his shirt, Peter fights back bile at the sight of the bruises and scrapes that cover his brother’s chest, having to look away before Harley drops his shirt.

“But, Peter,” Harley’s moved on from the gut-wrenching display of his chest and Peter finds himself hopelessly trying to follow, even as his mind churns with anger, with agony, with sadness and loathing— “this guy Clint, he said he could help us if we wanted. Well… me, anyways. I didn’t tell him about you or Morgan, but I bet he’d help all of us.” Harley fishes around in his pockets and pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper, setting it down on the desk between them, looking more hopeful than Peter’s seen in a long time. “He wrote down the address of the cafe we were at instead of giving me his number, said if I ever needed help, I could just go back there, after school or something, and he’d meet me there.”

Peter’s head is spinning.

He’s angry — how could his brother be so _blind_? Agreeing to put his faith in a stranger, willing to share his name, to have a conversation, to accept an olive branch that cannot come without the expectation of something given in return.

He’s relieved — though Clint’s arrival, his offers to help, seem too good to be true, Peter cannot deny he’s, they’re, indebted to him. Without Clint, Peter doubts that Harley would be sitting in front of him like this, full of adrenaline but – comparatively, anyways – unharmed, at least not in the way that Peter’s been.

For a little while longer, at least, his brother will be spared from that.

Harley’s waiting for him to speak but he knows as he mulls over what he _can _say that Harley won’t like it either way.

“We can’t trust him.” Harley’s mouth opens, immediately on defense, but Peter holds up his hand. It’s his turn to speak, even if it pains him. “Harley, I’m, I’m beyond glad he saved you—” _even if you ended up in more pain afterwards, I’m so sorry, this never should have happened_, “—but we don’t _know _him. We can’t just trust him with our safety. I can’t trust him with your safety, not to mention Morgan’s. You don’t know what he wants from you.”

(_he could be like all the others_)

“And we can’t just leave.” A repetition of the same argument. Peter is so, so tired of arguing. “If they found us, Harley, they— do you want to be split up?” Harley recoils and he feels a wave of guilt, but Peter needs this point to hit home. He _needs _Harley to understand. “They’d split us up in a heartbeat. We would never see each other again.”

Peter cannot protect them if they’re apart.

(_not that he can protect them anyways_. _the knife mocks him from under his pillow_.)

“I can’t take that chance. You can’t see him again, Harley. If Charles finds out that you’re talking to him, he’s going to get suspicious, and then there’s going to be consequences.” Words are spilling from Peter’s mouth, now, his fingers finding the already-crumpled paper and crushing it further in his hand as he repeats, “I can’t take the chance.”

“Peter,” Harley’s indignant, rightfully so, and Peter reminds himself to stay strong even as his brother’s bruises dance in front of his eyes like stars. “We can’t_ stay_ here! I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, but you have to know this is crazy. This whole fucking place is crazy, this situation is crazy, and if you’re not going to _do _anything about it, I will.”

Harley stands, leaving in a rush while Peter sits in stunned silence, wounded, but not surprised, by the biting truth in his brother’s words. _Does_ he know this is crazy? He’s so used to this, to their situation, that escape seems to be the only crazy thing on the table. In a dark corner of his mind, his brain is screaming at him to run, to take the chance, to get his siblings out. If it means self-sacrifice, that’s what it means.

Peter acknowledges without hesitation in this moment that if his death means Morgan and Harley’s freedom, it is something he will face without fear.

All the same, the realization scares him more than he’s willing to admit.

However, the idea of putting his faith so immediately in a stranger, especially a man (_he wants something, he wouldn’t offer something so precious as safety without wanting something in return, they’re _all the same), leaves a sour taste on his tongue. Leaving his siblings’ lives in Clint’s hands, trusting that he has the wherewithal to keep them safe, to look after them, is something Peter is incapable of doing. He doesn’t know the man’s motives, and if he dies trying to get them out, on the off chance that they _can_ trust Clint… who’s to say his siblings wouldn’t be far after him? Who’s to say Clint wouldn’t be either?

Hypothetical or not, the thought of being responsible for so much death makes him dizzy.

And yet… there is something tantalizing about escape. The fantasy swirls in Peter’s head, coyly showing him scenes of domestic happiness with his siblings, a peacefulness exuding from the imaginary that is reminiscent of their early childhood. A paradise, a utopia, one for him and Harley and Morgan to live, away from the clammy hands of Gloria and the knuckles of Charles; it is equal parts nostalgic, painful, and horribly unrealistic.

But when Peter breaks from his daydreaming, he finds he’s placed his hand over his heart, fingers curled in the worn fabric of his t-shirt. Would it be so bad to escape? The consequences of capture are enough to make his heart race, but on the off chance they made it out undetected…

Peter shakes his head, dropping his hand from his chest, eyes trained on the crumpled paper that remains on his desk. It taunts him, tempts him. If he goes in Harley’s place, maybe it would be safer.

No. No, he knows he can’t. By leaving, he puts his siblings in more danger, and when he thinks about meeting up with this man in Harley’s stead, all that dances in front of his eyes are his siblings, covered in bruises, eyes asking _why did you do this to us_?

Peter knows that safety is relative. He’s tried to build a wall of protection around them,

(_a conglomeration of scraps, swaying where it stands, protecting them from some things but not everything, no, not everything – is this protection at all, Peter? or are you trying to protect yourself? you saw Harley, you can’t say—_)

and he’ll be damned if he lets anything knock it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! midterms are happening right now, and I wanted this chapter to be good before I just tossed it up, so I spent yesterday and today editing. thank y'all for the love on the first chapter! it means the world to me.
> 
> hopefully chapter three will be up around the same time next week, but it may be a few days late, as I'll be traveling. I'll try to be timely with the update! also, this fic is un-beta'd, so if you catch any mistakes, please feel free to let me know.
> 
> thanks, y'all :')


	3. Come Hell or High Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for the sexual assault of a minor (non-explicit) and a reference to self harm

The days following their argument are quiet, filled with looks between brothers that leaves little room for the imagination. Harley’s frustration seeps out of every pore, and while Peter feels badly about their fight, he refuses to apologize. All he’s doing is looking out for his siblings, and he cannot apologize for thinking about their safety before anything else.

Morgan isn’t exempt from their frosty attitudes, though they’ll never take their anger out on her, and would never dream of it. They may lash out at each other, but she is an innocent party through and through. While she’s perceptive enough to notice the underlying animosity in their interactions, she remains sheltered from the brunt of their anger.

Their routine is different with this course of arguing. Usually, they fight, remain chilly for a few days, and make up; this time, they continue to argue at night in hushed tones, going round and round until they sound like broken records, each chipped at the corners, the tracks too deeply grooved for the needle to move anywhere else.

A stalemate.

Life continues whether they want it to or not.

Gloria and Charles treat them all as if nothing has changed. Morgan is still the golden child, Harley still gets threats every time he mouths off (_an occurrence becoming all the more frequent in the aftermath of their argument, not at all deterred by the hits that Charles lands_), and Peter… well, his nightly routine is the same. In the eyes of their wardens, nothing has changed, and what happens between siblings is not their concern – so long as grades stay good and they stay quiet, their situation won’t get any worse.

Won’t get any better, either.

Harley begins to distance himself from Peter and Morgan after school, saying he’ll see them at home before he thrusts his hands into his coat and trudges off in the opposite direction. Morgan’s curious, though not for very long, while Peter grows more and more worried. There is no doubt in his mind where his brother is going, who his brother is meeting, and it makes an anxious pit grow in his stomach.

Peter thinks that meeting up with a strange man under the misguided impression he can help is reckless. Harley’s endangering himself, as well as Peter and Morgan, by specifically going against Peter’s instructions to keep clear. Peter oscillates between angry and a bone-deep worry that keeps him from sleeping more than Charles’s visits do, leaving him exhausted but wired, too preoccupied with Harley’s safety to let anything else hop onto his radar. Nothing matters more than Harley in Peter’s mind, now – he’s the one in the most immediate danger.

Peter manages to hold off asking for over a week, biting his tongue whenever Harley enters their room later than normal, though he’s careful to not come back late enough to arouse suspicion. His brother is nothing if not proactive about getting back before the Finches do and for that, Peter has to (begrudgingly) applaud him. At least the risks he’s taking are calculated.

But, even with all this in mind, Peter’s main question is: is Harley being _careful?_

There’s a night where Harley gets back much later than normal, barely staying within the safe window of time he has before the Finches return home. Peter’s beside himself with fear (_he knew it, Clint is bad news, Harley’s hurt, he’s dead, he’s in a ditch, he never should have let this continue on, it’s too risky—)_ by the time his brother enters their room. Within milliseconds, Peter’s standing from his chair quickly enough to nearly topple it over, fingers gripping the edge of his shitty wooden desk.

“Harley, this needs to _stop_.” Peter’s pleading, he knows he is, and he hates the desperate edge that has found its way into his voice. He is desperate, though – now that his brother is usable (_his mouth feels dry, drier than a desert_) for the Finches’ operation, there’s no telling if (_no, when_) Charles is going to decide that Harley is just as fit a target as Peter is. “I know what you’re doing, and you can’t. You can’t keep doing this.”

Harley doesn’t respond as he tosses his backpack onto the bed, coat following soon after, springs of the mattress creaking as he flops down. His hair is getting long, Peter realizes abruptly, as Harley’s fingers comb through it. When did it get so long? When did his brother start losing the baby fat from his cheeks? Peter’s chest aches as he takes in the signs (_how could he have missed these? has he really become so oblivious?_) that Harley is growing up, and with this comes the sobering realization that Harley won’t accept Peter’s protection forever.

_he’s already stopped, you moron, he doesn’t want your shitty excuse for help, he’s growing up, he’s going to be able to protect himself better than you ever could—_

So wrapped up in his thoughts, he hardly realizes how white his knuckles are on the desk.

“What do I need to stop, Peter?” Harley speaks, finally, and Peter’s breath catches in his throat. “I just go for walks after school. See people. I’m not _doing_ anything.” That’s a bold-faced lie and they both know it as their eyes meet. Incredulous, Peter struggles to find words. They used to tell each other everything, which only makes the implication in this statement –Harley no longer trusts Peter enough to answer honestly – hurts him more than any pain that’s been inflicted, on his body, mind, or soul.

He releases his grip on the desk. Three of his fingers on his left hand are numb.

Peter takes a breath, focuses on the emotion pushing its way to the front.

Anger. Possessiveness? 

He lets out his breath, walks around the desk, goes to stand in front of his brother.

“What makes you think you have the right to put us all in danger like this, Harley?” Peter’s voice is low, no longer colored by desperation driven by worry. He’s _angry_, furious, that his brother could be so selfish.

_you sound like charles, you stupid child_

“He’s not going to help you. He’s not going to help us. You’re walking a fine fucking line here, Harley, and I don’t know if you understand that. If Charles or Gloria catches you sneaking home after they get here, you’re going to learn a lesson I’ve been trying to keep them from teaching you.”

To his surprise, Harley barks a laugh, pushing himself up off the bed. Peter remembers having to look down at his brother but they’re nearly at eye level now. It’s startling. It manages to pull Peter from the rage he’s entered, taking some of the red out of his vision.

“You think this _lecture_ is going to protect me, Peter? Seriously?” Harley’s fists are at his sides, Peter’s nails are digging into his palms. They’ve fought, they’ve argued, but this level of anger radiating between them is unlike Peter’s ever known. “You _can’t _protect me, and your lectures sure as _fuck _aren’t going to do anything to help me. Don’t you get that? You can walk around and keep an eye on me, you can-- I don’t know what the hell you do with Charles, what you say to him, but nothing you say helps. Got that, big brother? Nothing you say to me, or say to anyone else, matters here. _You can’t protect me_, and you know it.”

Harley shoves by Peter, neatly hitting a blooming bruise on his rib cage that leaves Peter sucking in air, bent slightly at his waist. “So, if you’re not gonna do shit to protect me, to protect Morgan,” he turns, hand on the doorknob, his jaw firmly set. “I’m going to.”

* * *

The door has long been shut and Harley long gone before Peter realizes he’s sitting on his bed. The second realization is that he’s crying and, judging by how he can no longer breathe through his nose, he’s been crying for some time.

The anger that drove him into the confrontation with Harley has dissipated, leaving Peter feeling hollow as he lifts a hand to wipe at his face.

It’s nagged at him before, this feeling of not being good enough. This feeling that whispers to him that he cannot protect his siblings and, despite what he tells himself in the dead of night, he never has been able to – it’s like a specter that floats at the edge of Peter’s subconscious, just waiting for the smallest crack in his psyche to infiltrate through.

His psyche feels considerably cracked as he bends in half, head dropping between his knees, fingers finding his hair.

Are his hands trembling? Is that why he weaves his fingers into his hair, not only to ground himself but to keep them from shaking so violently?

There is no way that Harley would have known that his words would have hit Peter so hard. Said in anger, yes, but said with malice? Peter has never known Harley to be intentionally malicious. It simply wouldn’t be rational to think that Harley would have taken a stake and intentionally driven it so deeply into Peter’s chest.

(_these thoughts will come later_.)

In the present, Peter sucks breaths through his nose in a desperate attempt to fill his lungs with air. He’s felt panic before – felt fear, pain, sorrow – but this feeling robs him of rational thought, robs him of air, robs him of any feeling of control. It’s as if his body has been shot into space and he has no choice but to careen through this unfathomable, uninhabitable void, weightless, out of control; it’s as if the ground has vanished below his feet even as his toes dig into the carpet.

(_you failure. you can’t even protect your brother from your own selfishness. hypocrite, thinking harley’s selfish. you do everything under the guise of being a protective older brother, but you _know _you’re self-serving. he’s right and you know it. he’s doing more for you and morgan than you ever have for them. you _wish _you had the guts that he does._)

It’s an eternity before Peter feels in control of his lungs again. His fingers slowly release themselves from his hair, his body rights itself, his head rolls to get the stiffness out from his neck. His heart still slams against his chest but it’s marginally less frenzied than it was, calming further with each pointed breath that Peter takes.

The specter that invades his thoughts has retreated into its designated corner once again, leaving him feeling relatively in control of his thoughts. As much as it pains him, Peter thinks both Harley and that dark part of his brain are right – he’s failing, and has failed, to protect his siblings. That’s why Harley’s been taking things into his own hands, and as much as Peter wants to act to minimize the risks of his brother getting beat within an inch of his life, he recognizes with every passing second that Harley’s bull-headedness, his lashing-out, is directly in response to Peter’s own inaction and… if he’s being brutally honest with himself, his cowardice.

Peter wonders what his brother’s plans are.

He’s been staying out almost every day to meet with this Clint guy – this much Peter is confident about. He’s also confident that, since Harley has always been very straight to the point, he’s been blunt in his conversations with Clint, especially as they’ve talked more and more frequently.

If Harley – no, if he and Clint – have anything, it’s a plan, even if it’s only the beginnings of one.

Peter wonders if they could feasibly make it outside of the realm of the Finches’ influence undetected.

He has no money of his own – he has a bus card, they all do, but how far would that get them? They would have to ditch the cards anyways if they left – Peter refuses to be tracked down because of a transit pass.

Tracked down.

_Fuck_. It dawns on him that not only would they have to evade the Finches, they would have to evade Social Services. They’d have to evade the fucking _government_.

No money, no birth certificates, no social security numbers, no backup plans or fail-safes available to them. They’d be lucky, Peter realizes, to escape with some clothes and their transit cards, _maybe_. How long will that even be sustainable? Peter’s fingers twitch in his lap. A part-time job might be doable, but without identification… will he even be hirable? It seems more unlikely the more that he considers it.

It dawns on him immediately after this that they’ll have to leave school. They’ll have no choice but to – it’ll be too easy to find them there, to snag them, and if Charles or Gloria calls in and takes them out of school early, they’ll be helpless to resist.

No school. A small pool of part-time jobs, if he’s lucky, will be available, but… they’ll be entirely at the mercy of Clint, and what will happen to them when his generosity runs out? Peter cannot imagine this man would allow three children, really, to squat in a living room until he turns eighteen and can – potentially – get them out.

In order to escape, they’ll have to be virtually invisible, and he has no idea how to even begin to make that happen. Especially with Morgan still being so young… he knows that she’s smart and she’ll adapt, but Peter isn’t eager to force his gregarious kid sister to be invisible and to live, essentially, underground. Especially after the tumultuous nature of their lives in the past few years, to ask her – and Harley, even if it’s his plan driving them forward – to take part in something that would uproot them _again _makes Peter squirm with discomfort.

Any ounce of hope that he has that Harley’s plan (_he has to acknowledge the speculation on his part. the truth eludes him, and will continue to, unless he manages to fix the chasm that stretches between him and his brother, and he has to know what his brother is planning before—_) might be able to work is quickly dashed out against the wall. How ridiculous to think that three kids would be able to make it out of the system and make it on their own in New York.

It sounds like a shitty, off-brand, continuation of the _Home Alone _saga.

The thought makes him smile, but it lasts only a moment.

Peter grabs some toilet paper from the bathroom and blows his nose, splashes his face with some cold water, and stares himself down in the mirror, bracing against the edges of the sink. He’s not sure how to classify the face he sees in the mirror. Bags sit under his eyes; a small patch of his left eyebrow is missing after Charles hit him early on, ring leaving a scar there; his cheekbones are more prominent than he remembers them being, but maybe that’s just because he’s growing up; his hair is the same mousy brown it’s always been, though, and while his expression is resigned, tired, his eyes are the same color they’ve always been, too. Peter finds comfort in this, though logically he recognizes that there would be no reason for them to change.

Well…

If he dyes his hair, manages to secure some colored contacts, will he look different enough to avoid detection? Peter raps his fingers against the side of the sink, looking at himself more critically. It’ll be easy enough to secure a box of black hair dye (_though he realizes he will most likely have to steal it, which is a fact that sits uncomfortably on his shoulders_), and if he’s lucky, he’ll be able to dye it the night before a hypothetical escape and vanish before Charles or Gloria sees him. His mind supplies, unhelpfully, that Clint may be able to help with the acquisition of the dye, and maybe even the contacts, but Peter shuts the thought down immediately. He’s not about to give Clint anything he can lord over him.

It’s been a long time since Peter’s mind has whirred like this. Puzzling over a problem is like taking a breath of fresh air; to have to think something through and have his answer _matter _makes him feel as if he’s working towards a goal, unattainable though it may seem. This matters like nothing else Peter has ever faced, and he realizes that if he views this as a challenge, as an equation to solve, his fears about it no longer come into play. If he views it as a math problem, Peter can ignore the fact that this is a legitimate plan that he is in the midst of creating.

There’s a certain kind of freedom in that, he thinks.

Immediately, Peter knows he has to apologize to Harley. An apology is necessary after their argument, anyways; Peter knows he’s let Harley down, and even if his brother refuses to accept his apology, he’ll have to content himself with the knowledge that he did it all the same.

* * *

He doesn’t get the chance to, though.

Charles returns home in a fouler mood than normal and has them all walking on eggshells through the rest of the night. Even Gloria, who has managed to wrangle him through all his terrible moods with a bit of whiskey with dinner, is keeping her distance. Peter knows the second the front door slams that he’s going to be sought out tonight and the knowledge creates a stone in his chest, rendering him unable to think about much else. Any hopes of apologizing to Harley are dashed against the wall, and as it happens, Peter barely speaks to his brother as Harley vanishes from the room as soon as he’s able, clearly avoiding Peter at all costs.

The animosity is palpable, Peter thinks, but so is the anger radiating off Charles.

Harley is in the safety of Morgan’s room when Charles comes to get Peter.

The routine is that they retreat to the room where Charles can act as aggressively as he wants, messing up the bed that Peter assumes that Gloria makes up after each time Charles destroys it.

(occasionally, Peter wonders what their marriage is like – does Gloria support her husband’s predatory actions? Encourage it? Does she look at the bed and strip the sheets and feel disgusted, or pleased? Peter tries to not think too long about it if he can – the possibility that Gloria is happily compliant makes Peter more than uneasy)

However, there’s always a first time for everything.

Tonight, Peter looks up from his homework as the bedroom door locks. His mouth is dry in seconds, body frozen in place and on high alert, gripping the pencil in his hand hard enough to make the wood begin to splinter. Charles says nothing and advances, barely giving Peter a second glance before his fingers wrap around his bicep and drag him up from his desk.

He is too stunned to cry out.

* * *

By the time Charles is finished, Peter’s desk is empty, most of the contents having been shoved onto the floor. An emptiness replaces any other emotion; it is a deep hollowness that Peter hasn’t felt to this degree in a long time. Charles gestures to the floor, tells Peter to “clean up this Godforsaken mess; it’s a pigsty in here”, and leaves with a disgusted look on his face, door shutting hard behind him.

The door shutting makes Peter realize that, until now, he’s considered this bedroom a safety zone. Charles has fetched him from it before, but he’s never done… done this before. This room has always been a place where Peter can retreat, can stay out of the way, but now he realizes that he’s simply been given the illusion of safety here – something that has just been completely shattered.

Peter can almost see the shards of glass fanned out around him.

His movements are mechanical as he pulls up his boxers and pants and begins to set the room right. A few sprays of cleaner on his desk and some thorough scrubbing with some paper towels manage to mask the smell somewhat (_it’s burned into his nose, his lungs, he can’t escape it, he’s choking on it—_), and while it’s arduous to pick up his papers and books and pens off the floor (_his body feels like lead, his hands are not his own, is he really here? his fingers, his legs, his arms, they’re all moving, but he’s disconnected_), Peter manages to get it done.

A shower. That’s next.

Peter cannot bring himself to stand up anymore. He sits on the floor of the shower, draws his knees to his chest despite the pain it causes, and rests his forehead on his kneecaps while the water rains down on him.

Bile goes down the drain twice before he manages to clean his body off.

He’s still not clean.

He stands. Turns off the water. Gets out.

Peter hears the door open and close, freezes. It’s just Harley – he’s humming a familiar tune. He relaxes, marginally.

How long has he been in the bathroom, towel wrapped tightly around his torso?

Dries off. Dresses in pajamas that cover as much skin as he can manage.

Leaves the bathroom.

For once, Peter’s thankful that Harley ignores him, that he has no interest in talking about anything. Their fight gives Peter a veil with which he can hide behind (_fucking coward_) and gives him the perfect excuse to silently crawl into bed, face the wall, and curl up, his back to his brother.

His body _aches_. It aches in a way that is bone deep – no, marrow deep – and leaves Peter frozen in place on his side, arms wrapped around his body as if that will protect him.

Protection. As if. Charles can take whatever he wants, whenever he wants. This is now an undeniable fact.

Peter’s fingers find the knife that hides below his pillow long after the lights have been switched off and Harley’s breath slows and deepens. They wrap tightly around the handle, drawing it out, and ease open the blade. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see but Peter doesn’t care; he stares at the blade, lets his fingers feel the broad, cold side of it, touches the tip with the pad of his thumb.

The impulse to throw the fucking thing out the window hits, passes; the impulse to touch the blade to the soft skin of his wrist hits, but passes without Peter moving an inch.

Eventually the blade retreats into the sheath and the knife slides back under the pillow. The pressure of the blade against the pad of his thumb lingers.

Sleep doesn’t come. His mind whirs, but not in the way that it did before. Eyes open, eyes close. His arms curl against his chest, knees meeting them over his ribs.

Time passes. Surely it does.

A moment of clarity in the darkness of the room.

Leaving is not an option for him. Harley and Morgan may be able to get out, but Peter knows he never will.

This should cause anguish, despair, _something_, but it doesn’t.

Instead, as the day dawns bright outside, Peter’s filled with a grim determination. He’s gone through the stages of grief enough times to recognize his current state as acceptance. His fate, as far as he sees it, is set in stone – there is no scenario that he can imagine where he escapes. It breaks his heart to imagine his siblings carrying on without him, but his body has been sacrificed at the altar enough times to where he almost _welcomes_ the chance to sacrifice it once more if it’s for them.

As Harley stirs in his bed behind Peter and the birds begin to sing high and sweet outside the window, he realizes that there’s only one thing to do.

He needs to talk to Clint, and he needs to do it soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all! so sorry for the delay - I was traveling this week and didn't have a chance to edit this chapter until recently :) not totally satisfied w/ her but it do be like that sometimes.
> 
> thank you for all the love on this story so far, it means the world!


	4. Amends

Navigating this is going to be tricky.

Peter knows that Harley isn’t going to buy his sudden change of heart without a reason, but what reason does he have? If he tells his brother the course of events, the train of thought, that led him to this resolution, it’ll cause another argument and Peter’s sorely lacking the energy for another round of that. He barely has energy to drag his body out of bed, and he knows there’s bags below his eyes that’ll bound to be staying around for some time. 

This isn’t about his physical discomfort, which is what Peter reminds himself of that as he goes through the motions of his morning, gritting his teeth to keep from grimacing. His state of being is irrelevant in all this. 

So, a total one-eighty isn’t in the cards for him. Fine. 

There’s a few options he has all the same. Following Harley after school is an option, but he’ll have to bring Morgan along, which is decidedly less possible. Peter will have to be inconspicuous and having his little sister around would make them all too visible - Harley’d pick up on their presence in a heartbeat. He can demand to meet this man, make Harley take him to see Clint, but Peter’s demands would, undoubtedly, fall on deaf ears. There’s no reason for Harley to take him - it falls under the same vein of Harley not believing in a true one-eighty of opinion - so Peter casts that aside, too. 

The only thing Peter can think of that will make Harley at all willing to facilitate a meeting would be something happening to Morgan. The odds of that are (_thankfully_) minuscule, but it would give him a reason to want to meet Clint. 

(_you care more about her than you do harley, is that it? it’s too unforgivable for her to be hurt, but it’s palatable for harley to be used in the same way you are? disgusting. what kind of brother wouldn’t be moved by the threat of either of his siblings getting hurt? unbelievable._)

Peter swallows that bitter pill with difficulty. It dawns on him more and more throughout the day that that’s exactly what he’s been doing. He’s placed Morgan higher than any of them because she’s defenseless and young, but he trusts Harley to watch over himself more. Harley’s outburst makes sense, as does his lack of trust. Why would he feel any sort of warmth to Peter if he feels as though he’s been entirely cast aside, put in a less important position than Morgan or Peter himself? 

He has a _lot_ to apologize for. 

Hopefully his apology will mend enough to where Peter’s interest in Clint will sit relatively well with Harley, but he doubts it. 

Peter has to acknowledge how their situation is changing rapidly, though, and he has to figure out how he’s going to tell his brother this without scaring him. Charles’ display last night proves, in Peter’s mind, an escalation of behavior. That escalation puts both Morgan and Harley in increasing amounts of danger, which makes his skin crawl, and he knows that if things _do_ get to that point, their emancipation will no longer be possible. He has no doubts that they’ll be put under lock and key and then not even Harley will be able to finagle his way out to meet his benefactor.

He’s torn. 

Peter has no desire to tell his brother just how bad his situation is. Harley’s not stupid, he knows what happens to Peter - hell, he’s mended him more than a few times - but the extent of it is something he’s never talked about. The things that Charles, that the other men, say, what they do to him that are _felt_ but not seen, those are things he’s kept from telling Harley. But, if he doesn’t tell him, then Peter’s fear about escalating circumstances will not make sense. They’ll seem unfounded and Harley will just accuse him of- well, Peter doesn’t know what, exactly, but he knows that Harley won’t believe him. 

What he needs is a chance to sit with his brother and talk, uninterrupted, to get this all sorted, but he doubts they’ll be able to. Doing it at school means risking others overhearing. At the Finches’, they risk being overheard by either Morgan, Gloria, or Charles, all of which would have disastrous outcomes. They can’t exactly go somewhere after school, as Morgan would have to come with them and Peter wants to shelter her from the harsh realities of her brothers’ lives as long as he is able.

A lucky break is what he gets that afternoon. Morgan has a doctor’s appointment that Gloria takes her to and Charles, still fuming, squirrels away in his study with explicit instructions not to bother him. Peter has no issues complying with that, not while his body still smarts and bruises sit nicely on top of previously-healing skin. Cornering his brother takes some work, but finally Peter does, his efforts being rewarded by Harley snapping, “what the fuck do you want?” at him. 

Peter’s never been so happy to be cursed at.

It takes some gentle prodding but Peter manages to convince Harley they need to talk and that he desperately wants a chance to work through everything that’s gone down. Harley’s reluctant and standoffish, but he agrees to sit in their room and give Peter a chance to explain himself. So they make their way into their room, shutting the door halfway, and sit on the floor, backs against the sides of their beds. 

Peter takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his heart pounding in his chest (_nerves? because he’s by the desk where he—?_), but with a couple measured breaths, he manages to soothe himself somewhat. 

“I’m sorry.” Harley’s eyes roll the moment he says it, but Peter lifts his hands, silently asking Harley for this space. He’s granted it. “You’re right, Harley, I can’t protect you, and even when I’ve tried, I’ve done a pretty shitty job of it. You have _every_ right to be angry with me. I’ve let you down, and I know that. I’m sorry, and I know that saying that won’t fix_—_ it won’t fix any of it, any of this.” He gestures around them and lets his hands fall limply to his sides, meeting Harley’s eyes. There’s no fire there, but there’s wariness _—_ that’s fair, well deserved.

“I’m asking for your forgiveness, though I understand if I don’t get it.” A pause, Peter weighing the words before he takes the metaphorical leap. “What I’m also asking is, though, can I meet Clint?” Surprise passes over Harley’s face and for a moment, Peter wonders if he’s going to be laughed at again, but instead, Harley just seems incredulous. 

“Meet him? After all the shit you’ve given me?” Harley runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You’re joking, right? This is a joke. We fight and you suddenly think meeting with him is a great idea? And not only that, you dovetail a request like that on an _apology_? _Fuck_, Peter.” 

“I know! I know how it sounds, but...” Peter swallows. “We’re not safe.” Harley scoffs and Peter gives him a pleading look, hands gripping his knees. “I mean it, Har. Less safe than before. Last night, Charles_—_ listen, I think he’s escalating. He’s getting angrier. Last night was unlike all the other shit he’s done before and I’m scared it’s going to get even more out of hand. I _need_ to know if leaving,” he whispers the word, “is a feasible option. I trust you, but I don’t trust Clint. I need to know what you know.”

Harley’s weighing the options in his head, Peter knows he is. Even with the distance growing ever-larger between them, Peter knows Harley, and for a minute, he feels like he may have a shot at getting this to work. A small shot, but a shot all the same.

“I don’t know.” Peter deflates some, but takes solace in the fact it wasn’t a hard or immediate _no_. He can work with _I don’t know_.

“I_—_ he still doesn’t know about you and Morgan.” Harley shifts against the sideboard of his bed and rubs at his neck, decidedly not looking at Peter. “I’d need to tell him. And see what he says. He may not want to meet if he knows there’s two others, and... I don’t know if I want to risk losing this out, Peter.” 

The air between them is palpably uncomfortable. What Peter’s asking is huge, and Harley’s hesitation is reasonable, but it doesn’t make Peter any less antsy to make his brother _see_ what needs to happen. However, Harley’s desire to keep this opportunity to himself is just as reasonable; considering Peter's all-but abandonment of him, Harley probably sees this as his only shot to get himself out. It’s selfish, but Peter can understand that _—_ he’s been pretty damn selfish, too, and, even if he likes to think otherwise, what he’s asked of his brother is selfish. 

A headache starts to build behind his eyes as he attempts to reckon with all the emotions swirling through him, and Peter rubs at the bridge of his nose before he can stop himself. He hears Harley sigh from in front of him, the noise making Peter drop his hand to his knees again. 

“All I ask is a chance,” Peter murmurs, lifting his hands to the side in acquiescence of the fact that whatever Harley’s choice is, it’s his to make. “I want to do right by you _and_ Morgan, and I think that Clint is the person that can help me do that. I’m _sorry_ that I’ve let you down, and Mo, too, but I’m trying to fix that now, as much as I can.”

All Peter can think as he looks at Harley is _too little, too late_.

Harley’s expression shifts and he worries at his lower lip, but all he does is shrug. “We’ll see.” His response is frustratingly vague, but Peter just has to swallow his pride and his frustrations and come to terms with the fact that this is Harley’s choice to make. He can’t do anything about what Harley does next _— _all he can do is hope for the best.

If anything, Peter realizes with a sinking feeling, he has to encourage his brother to spend more time with Clint in the desperate, desperate hope that something comes to fruition. 

* * *

Peter spends the next week perpetually on edge, itching to press Harley on if he’s made progress. His brother remains aloof, but their interactions are far less icy than before, and Morgan seems to be happier now that the obvious signs of her brothers’ animosity have vanished. Peter tries to spend most of his time with her, trying to remedy the fact he’s failed to be a good brother, but where Harley met him with hostility, Morgan seems to have borne no grudge against him and returns to being glued to his side, as if nothing had transpired between them.

The easy forgiveness from his little sister is achingly bittersweet. 

Conversations between him and Harley are stilted, even with their uneasy truce. Harley knows Peter’s dying to ask him about Clint, and Peter knows that if he asks, he risks making Harley feel forced into something he’s not yet ready for.

(_you already forced him into this, pushed him to make a choice he doesn’t want to because he’s actually got morals, unlike you, you self-serving little—_)

It’s a sticky situation they find themselves in. 

That Peter finds himself in. 

For the first time in months, that Friday, Charles and Gloria announce that they’re hosting a dinner party. 

Fear makes Peter’s mouth dry, a sour taste lingering on his tongue no matter how many times he swallows. Charles hasn’t come into his room again after that first time, but their... interactions have had a hostile edge to them, his bruises feeling more than skin deep. He _knows_ that this time around there’s going to be bids for Harley. He knows that Charles won’t make the same mistake twice, won’t let a john leave unsatisfied again because of an unruly child. 

Peter’s been doing all he can to let Harley do this on his own time, but with this party fast approaching, Peter breaks on Wednesday night.

It’s dark, been dark in their room for some time, but Peter knows his brother isn’t asleep. He’s been trying to muster up the courage to whisper to him - to his own _brother_, fuck, he’s pathetic - but Harley beats him to it.

“They’re going to expect me to participate, aren’t they?” Harley murmurs, and from the rustle that comes from the bed, Peter knows he’s turned to look at him. He finds himself unable to look back. 

“Yes.” The response weighs like lead on his tongue. “Has Clint...?”

“I haven’t_—_” Harley cuts himself off. “Tomorrow. I’ll... tomorrow, I’ll do it.” 

“Harley, you don’t_—_”

“Don’t you _dare_ say I don’t have to do this.” Harley bites out, exhaling through his teeth. “If you say that, Peter, I’m going to lose my shit. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Silence reigns. Moonlight filters through their curtains, the fabric looking especially gauzy as Peter tilts his head up to look at it. It provides a sliver of light, cutting down the floor between their beds, ending at the gap below their door. Maybe if he shuts his eyes, that moonlight will carry him up and out the window, and he’ll get to leave this hellscape with his siblings in tow. It’s a nice thought.

“Listen, Harley.” Peter finally turns his body to face Harley, whose face is faintly illuminated by the moonlight. He looks especially young like this, hair mussed and expression more unguarded than Peter’s seen it in a long time. A surge of protectiveness hits him like a truck.

“If Clint can’t do anything, if he doesn’t want to, we’ll get out all the same.” He thins his lips. “If we’re smart, we can get out after the dinner party. After_—_ when everyone goes to sleep.” The implications of what’s to come that lie behind his words don’t need to be spoken. Peter can see by the tension in Harley’s jaw he understands perfectly. “We sneak out. We grab Morgan. She’ll be confused, but I think we can get out without her panicking.” 

“I know where Charles keeps his wallet.” Harley says suddenly, propping himself up on an elbow, and Peter mirrors the motion, his eyes wide. “We can get money. Get a hotel room or something.”

“There’s plenty of shitty motels around,” Peter adds cautiously. The thought of stealing from the Finches’ isn’t something he feels particularly guilty about considering, but the high possibility of getting caught makes his skin crawl; however, he knows they have no money to their names, and there’s no way they’d be able to secure a safe place to sleep without _something_. He’s sold his body and had it sold for him, but Peter doubts he’d be able to sleep with a motel manager in exchange for a night or two of solace while they attempt to figure their lives out. 

_Fuck_. What are they going to do if this works? 

“We pay in cash, they won’t say anything. And if you dress like an adult, you can pass for older.” Harley quips, receiving a withering glare in return, but Peter knows that Harley’s right. He can pass for older if he really tries, and if they pay in cash at a sketchy enough place, they’ll get left alone.

_The perks of living in New York_, Peter thinks dryly. _Give enough money to the right person and they won’t give a damn about what you do_. 

“If anything,” Peter looks towards their window, forcing his gaze to rise above his desk. “If Clint can give you a place, Mo and I will be fine. Or can give you and Mo a place, I’ll make it on my own. I’d rather you two be safe.” His gaze returns to Harley, who regards him with a frown.

It’s clear his brother’s not satisfied with this hypothetical arrangement, but Peter doesn’t need him to be. 

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” Harley says finally, rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s not heartless.” 

Conversation clearly over, Peter rolls back to face the wall. He catches himself praying that Clint shows them an ounce of generosity, or at least bestows some of it onto Harley. This whole situation feels as surreal as it felt when he saw the Finches’ house that first time, dropped off by a social worker with too many cases and not enough time and a tiny coffee stain on her pants from when they’d stopped for breakfast earlier that morning. 

At the time, he couldn’t believe their good fortune. Now, he can’t believe they’re going to try and pull a _Home Alone_-type escape from two highly successful, powerful, and intelligent goons.

For good measure, he sends up another prayer, even though he’s not sure who he’s praying to.

_Please don’t let me fuck this up. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy SHIT y'all, I am so sorry this took so long. being abroad, doing nano, and being generally busy and depressed had this chapter sitting forlornly in my doc, waiting for finishing. 
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who's subscribed, or commented, or left kudos, or simply gave this fic a read. I'm damn grateful and I feel hopeful I'll be able to (slowly but surely) get this fic back on track. 
> 
> sorry that this chapter is a bit short! trying to do these conversations was HARD because I'm shit at dialogue lmao and I really really wanted to get it out.
> 
> let me know if there's any errors in this one - it's gotten to the point where I've read it enough times to make the words blurry. 
> 
> much love :)

**Author's Note:**

> my first public foray into the avengers world :-) I'm honestly nervous about posting this, especially as I'm anticipating it being a longfic. can't promise regular posting but I'm going to do my best! I've had this idea for awhile and am thrilled to be getting it out. i have a lot of plans for this story but we'll see how they get carried out (aka if I can battle my brain and how it thinks about my writing). thank you for reading!


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